


nishtabel's kinktober

by nishtabel



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:55:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 16,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26897770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishtabel/pseuds/nishtabel
Summary: Happy Kinktober! I crowd-sourced a prompt list and wrote a short drabble for each day of October. In order to keep the tags relatively clear, each chapter listspairing,kink, andadditional content warningsin the beginning notes.Complete.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Dedue Molinaro, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Edelgard von Hresvelg, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Jeralt Reus Eisner, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Mercedes von Martritz, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Dorothea Arnault/Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Hilda Valentine Goneril/Edelgard von Hresvelg, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Claude von Riegan, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Dedue Molinaro, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Hubert von Vestra, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Seteth
Comments: 12
Kudos: 140





	1. lactation (sylvain/hubert)

**Author's Note:**

> as noted in the summary, each day's _pairing_ , _kink_ , and _additional content warnings_ will be listed in the notes of that chapter. PLEASE READ THE NOTES, as a few days will have elements of **non-con** , **incest** , and/or **other "hardcore" kinks**. i encourage you to curate your own experience, and only read the chapters you want to enjoy. thank you!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW for minor discussions of drugging.**

“Hubert,” Sylvain says, slowly, “can you tell me— _exactly_ —what was in that tea, last night?”

Hubert doesn’t look up from where he sits at his desk, shrouded in shadow against the back wall. Sylvain knows he heard him coming—his footfalls were purposely loud, after all, since he didn’t fancy getting blasted to bits by a blood ward—and yet he remains with his back turned, head bowed forward over his paperwork.

“Hubert,” Sylvain says again, crossing his arms in front of the hearth. The fire that roars inside is superficial, less for warmth than it is for light. Its glow is eerie and cold. “It’s two a.m. And my _clothes don’t fucking fit_.”

Hubert snorts derisively, setting his quill down on the desk with a dull click. He doesn’t turn to face Sylvain, but he does cock his head, allowing Sylvain his profile. “It was a bet,” he says, low and sinister and entirely, stupidly performative. “You agreed—”

“To try a _poison_ ,” Sylvain snaps, and surely by now Hubert has noticed that he’s in nothing but thin trousers and an old bedsheet. It’s positively scandalous, and part of Sylvain—the vindictive part, the petty, angry part—hopes that someone will have seen him sneaking half-naked into Hubert’s quarters. Let the waxen spymaster deal with those rumors, then. “Whatever you gave me wasn’t that.”

Hubert turns to face him fully, now, and Sylvain doesn’t miss the way his black, soulless eyes trace the broad curves of his exposed body. Hubert hasn’t seen him like this before; whatever he sees, Sylvain knows, it isn’t what he’d expected. “Whyever not?”

Hubert is toying with him, now, but Sylvain wasn’t given a place at Edelgard’s _war table_ for nothing. “We’re not playing chess,” Sylvain says, loosing his grip on the sheets he’s draped around his shoulders. “I asked you a question, Vestra. Do me the courtesy of answering it straight, please.” The _please_ slips from his mouth unbidden; Hubert’s eyes flash with amusement.

“Begging, now, are we?” he asks, standing in one smooth motion and stepping around his desk. There are bags under his eyes, Sylvain sees, dark and vivid once he enters the sparse light. “Surely you wouldn’t have preferred a traditional poison.”

Sylvain bites back a snarl, saved only by the crushing self-awareness that his fury is nothing but sick embarrassment. “Perhaps I would have,” he says. He watches, wary, as Hubert steps closer. “Knowing you, Vestra, I was expecting some horrible sleeping draught, or perhaps some magical seasickness, but _no_ —you, the paragon of Adrestia’s scholarship, Edelgard’s right-hand man, had to go and give me tits.”

Hubert laughs, then: it’s not pretty and it’s not loud, but it is laughter, and the unexpectedness of it catches Sylvain off-guard. “A side-effect,” Hubert assures him, thin lips curved rudely around a smile. “Is that all you’ve noticed, even after a full dose?”

“A _full dose_?”

Hubert hums, gloved hands reaching for Sylvain’s covered shoulders. He hasn’t seen the extent of the damage, not yet, but Sylvain suspects he knows what he’ll find when he removes the sheet. “Do they hurt?”

“Am I your test subject, now?” Sylvain asks, even as he lets the bedsheet fall from his body. His hands remain in front of his chest, hovering over the swelling of his pecs as though to shield them from Hubert’s clinical gaze. When Hubert merely glowers at him, one hairless brow cocked, he sighs and says, “Yes, they fucking hurt.”

“Move your hands, Gautier.” Hubert’s eyes fall from Sylvain’s face to his chest, clearly swollen even half-hidden behind Sylvain’s hands. “This will take an expert touch.”

“Excuse me?”

The look Hubert gives him could strike a lesser man dead; instead, Sylvain merely feels himself wither. “You’ll need to be expressed.”


	2. tentacles (mercedes/dimitri)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW for minor dub-con and stomach bulge.**

“Shh,” Mercie purrs, one hand pressed soothingly against his lower back. Dimitri shudders on his hands and knees, elbows quaking against the mattress as his thighs struggle to hold him upright. Mercie has been nothing but sweet, nothing but calm and slow and understanding, but even still she’s worked three fingers inside of him, and each brush of his prostate has Dimitri howling. “Relax into it, your Highness. Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” Dimitri croaks, catching the spit the threatens to drip from his mouth. He rocks his hips slowly, shallowly, and feels himself leak into the blankets below. “I just. I just…”

Mercie makes a calm noise, low and soft in her throat. Dimitri lets it soothe him, trying to distract himself from the pulsing pressure in his balls; he focuses instead on her nimble fingers at his hole, slippery and sweet where they stretch him. “You’re almost ready, I think,” she says, offering a long, deep thrust before pulling out entirely.

Dimitri can’t help the moan that tears from his throat, nor the frantic fluttering of his hole around the emptiness she’s left behind. “Please,” he says, breathless and begging.

Mercie presses a single kiss to his temple, lips soft against the sweat that beads on his brow. He hears her whisper something low, an unfamiliar verse in an unfamiliar language, and she’d warned him about this part, but he doesn’t believe her until—

There’s a snap and a pop and a hissing, slithering noise, but the fear that rushes through him is nothing in the face of Mercie’s delighted giggle. Dimitri forces himself to relax against the bed, hole bared to Mercie’s conjuration, and he’s just beginning to worry when the first tip of something smooth and supple prods at his ass. “Oh,” he says, jerking forward in his shock before Mercie eases him back with a hand on his shoulder. The sensation continues: it circles his hole, curious and shy, before Mercie whispers _something_ and it presses forward with sudden confidence. “ _Oh_ —”

“It may feel a bit strange, at first,” say Mercie, stroking kindly at his back. “It’s going to want to explore a bit, alright? They’re never fully sure of humans. Just trust me and relax, alright?”

Carefully, Dimitri nods. The—the _tentacle_ , as Mercie had called it earlier, slips deeper with each inhuman wriggle of its body, prodding and poking and filling Dimitri in a way he’s never felt. He does as he’s told, going limp against the bed with Mercie’s hand on him, but he swears the tentacle is growing thicker, stuffing him so full he struggles to breathe.

“Merc—Mercedes,” he gasps, hands grabbing at the blankets, “It, it’s—”

“Aw, it likes you. Look at that!” Mercie laughs, breathless as she clenches her thighs together. “Oh, Dimitri, you’re going to feel something else in just a second. Can you keep relaxing for me?”

Dimitri nods again, gasping and wriggling with his head hung between his shoulders. He can’t see behind him, but he does feel what Mercie means: another tentacle prods tentatively at his swollen rim, slick and wet, and he’s about to gasp out a _stop, wait_ , before it shoves itself inside alongside its twin.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dimitri cries, collapsing against the mattress. “Fuck, fuck, wait—”

The sensation is unlike anything he’s ever felt before, impaled on the alien thrusting of Mercie’s magic. They spear him open, wet and wild, pressing so deep within him that he can feel it in his stomach—and when he opens his eyes, disbelieving, he can see the thick bulge of them in his belly. His cock bobs heavy and hard between his legs, flushed red at the tip, and _goddess_ but he’s so—so…

“So good, Dimitri,” Mercie whispers, reaching behind him to tease his hole where it’s stretched so lewdly. The tentacles shudder at her touch and press _deeper_ , nestled somewhere, he swears, between his lungs. “Oh, you’re doing so well, baby, so good for me.”


	3. monsterfucking (sylvain/seteth)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW for teratophilia, minor pain play.**

It isn’t that Sylvain didn’t know that Seteth was a dragon—because he _did_ know, Linhardt had told him his suspicions many years ago—but _seeing_ is rather different than _believing_ , and something about being face to face with Seteth’s massive dragon cock is making it awfully hard to think.

“It’s big,” Sylvain says dumbly, mouth watering at the sight of it: long and hard and flushed, spined from root to tip and dripping pearly fluid like a spout. “ _Flames_ , Seteth, how do you—I mean.” He glances up. “Is it always like this?”

Seteth snorts, derisive and cruel. Sylvain ignores it; he knows embarrassment when he sees it, and Seteth’s face is flushed ear to throat. “I was unaware how little you knew about basic anatomy,” says Seteth, sharp nails curling into the sides of his chair. They’re pointed now, Sylvain notes, and he’s quite sure he hears a lisp in Seteth’s voice, as well. “Is _your_ cock always hard?”

Sylvain laughs, and it distracts from the aching of his knees where he sits against the stone floor. “No,” Sylvain says, “but it sure is right now.”

He watches as the blush on Seteth’s face grows darker. “You’re absolutely disgusting,” Seteth tells him, and _yes_ , there are the fangs Sylvain had been looking for—and the gentle forking of his tongue, sharp where it drags against Seteth’s lower lip. “It’s a wonder what those women see in you, Sylvain. You’re—you’re—” He cuts himself off with an offended noise, lip curling when he looks down at Sylvain. “Are you just going to stare at it, then?”

Sylvain grins, slow and sweet and honeyed. He bumps his nose against the flared tip of Seteth’s cock, carefully nuzzling the shaft. It’s slick against his cheek, wet with precum, and it makes his eyes water. “Will it hurt?” he asks, low enough to make Seteth strain to hear him. He presses his tongue flat against the head, letting the spit from his mouth drip to the floor; when Seteth still doesn’t answer him, he closes his mouth around Seteth’s cock and _sucks_.

Seteth’s hand grips his hair with startling force, claws scratching at his scalp. The sudden pain of it makes Sylvain moan, eyes rolling back in his head as Seteth’s cock releases another long string of precum into his mouth. “Yes,” Seteth says, tugging Sylvain’s head from his cock and directing his gaze up. “Yes, it will hurt.”

Sylvain feels himself leak into his own trousers, cock sinfully hard where it strains against his laces. He lets his mouth hang open, wet and dripping and hot, and it’s an invitation: he sees the realization glow in Seteth’s eyes. “Good,” he says, and means it.


	4. period sex (dimitri/edelgard)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW for blood and pseudo-incest (they're step-siblings with no blood relation, but they kind of get off on it).**

Dimitri finds her in bed, one pillow over her head and another in between her thighs, with her favorite squishmallow hugged tight to her chest.

“El?” he calls, poking his head through the door. “Are you alright?”

She grunts in response, but doesn’t move. Dimitri can barely make out her muffled voice when she says, “Go away, Dima.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt…whatever’s happening,” Dimitri says, keeping the door cracked, “but if you need anything, please let me know. I know that—this time of month can be difficult for you.”

Edelgard scoffs, tossing her squishmallow in Dimitri’s general direction. “ _This time of month_ ,” she echoes in a high falsetto. “Do you have any idea how much pain I’m in right now?”

Dimitri is honest when he answers. “Well,” he says, “no. And I know that…as a man…I could never. But you’re still my sister, and I still care about you, and we missed you at dinner—”

“ _Ugh_.” Edelgard pulls the pillow from her face and motions Dimitri to come inside. “Get in here, you idiot.” There’s a smile in her voice, but it’s well-masked by her scoff. “So eager to please your step-sister. You make it so _easy_ , Dima.”

Dimitri preens a bit at the praise, always hard to come by. He sits at the edge of Edelgard’s bed and waits for his instructions. “Shall I—get you soup? Coffee? What would help, in this…situation?”

Edelgard flops onto her back with a put-upon sigh. “I’m on my _period_ , Dima,” she says, spreading her limbs like a starfish. Dimitri drags his eyes from her thighs to her face, intent on staying focused. When she raises her arms above her head, crossing them over her temples, he watches the hem of her shirt ride over her belly, and he swears it looks _fuller_ —“Stop looking at me like that,” Edelgard snaps, tugging her shirt back down. “I’m bloated and I’m gross and I don’t feel good, so, like—”

“You’re beautiful,” Dimitri blurts, eyes wide and sincere. He watches the flush rise high in her face, coloring her soft cheekbones and the delicate curve of her jaw. “I’m…sorry that you’re, um. Not feeling well. And—on your period.”

Edelgard rolls her eyes, but Dimitri knows her well enough to spot the twitching of her mouth, the quiet curve of her self-conscious smile. “If you really want to make me feel better,” she says, keeping her eyes trained on the wall, “I do have something we could try.”

“Of course,” Dimitri says, eager.

Edelgard’s hands curl at the waistband of her sleep shorts, painted nails toying with the drawstring. “Do you remember…a couple of months ago. When Lambert and Mom went on a date, and…”

Dimitri feels his face heat at the memory, stomach going molten. “Yes,” he says, more a gasp than a word—because he _does_ remember: how he fell to his knees in front of Edelgard, freshly naked from her shower and still dripping with water, and how he’d—how she’d straddled him, one hand fisted in his hair as he licked her open, tasted her and breathed her in until he was nothing but _hers_ —

“If you’d want to do that again,” Edelgard continues, glancing over at Dimitri, “I think—I’ve heard that it can help.”

Dimitri nods, overwhelmed with images of Edelgard each time he closes his eyes: her little tits, the way they’d fit so perfectly in his hands, the way she’d cried out when she’d come—the way she’d gushed all over his face, riding his tongue until she’d nearly smothered him. He reaches for her now with a trembling hand. “Are you sure?” he asks.

Edelgard smiles, and it’s as sweet as it is confident. “Of course, Dima,” she says, tugging her shorts from her hips. She hasn’t worn any panties, Dimitri notices, and there’s a smear of blood on either thigh, glistening when she shifts to spread her legs. “Come and eat, brother.”


	5. orgasm delay/denial (dimitri/jeralt)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW for pre-TS, age difference, and daddy kink.**

Jeralt pulls Dimitri over his lap with a sudden tug, one sword-callused hand wriggling inside of Dimitri’s training leathers. “Is this what you want?” he asks, low and rough.

Dimitri gasps against him, squirming over Jeralt’s knees and moaning when Jeralt grabs a handful of his ass and squeezes. “Yes,” Dimitri says, voice cracking, “yes, yes.”

Jeralt indulges him, as he always does: he slips Dimitri’s leggings from his body and tosses them aside, unconcerned when they land in the dirt of the training circle. Dimitri shivers when his skin is bared, chilled air tickling his naked thighs, but when Jeralt smacks his ass, hard and quick, he feels sweat break out on his brow. He’s been hard since he entered the training ring, knocked back and pushed down by Jeralt’s lance, cornered by the blade against his throat—and Jeralt had laughed, jovial and light with the promise of something darker, before pulling Dimitri onto the nearest bench.

“You know, Dimitri,” Jeralt muses now, massaging Dimitri’s stinging flesh with thick, clever fingers, “I often wonder when you’ll grow tired of our trysts. To think you’d choose an old man like myself…” He laughs and slips his thumb between Dimitri’s flushed cheeks, teasing at his hole. “But you’re always so _desperate_ for it.”

Dimitri whines and shifts, rocking his hips back against Jeralt’s hand. He can feel where Jeralt strains against him, cock hard and hot through the laces of his trousers, and Dimitri’s mouth waters at the reminder of how big it is, how thick. He aches to fall to his knees, to press himself between Jeralt’s legs and take him into his mouth—to breathe in the scent of him, the dark musk of his groin. Instead, Jeralt keeps him pinned, one hand at his ass while the other clamps around the back of his neck.

“Please,” Dimitri begs, spit falling from his lips when he speaks. He can feel the blood in his face, the rapid beating of his heart. “Please, sir—”

Jeralt’s left hand disappears for a moment, reaching for something unknown—until Dimitri hears a cork unstop and the tinkling of glass, and two of Jeralt’s fingers return to press insistently at his hole. They’re slick with oil, slippery against his hole, and Dimitri only has a moment’s warning before they’re pressing _in_. It’s an overwhelming intrusion, more than he’s used to, but even as he cries out, thrashing in Jeralt’s lap, his cock leaks a steady stream of precum.

“Look at you,” Jeralt purrs above him, pumping his fingers slowly. “You’re taking me so well, sweetheart. I can feel how wet you are.”

Dimitri’s eyes flutter and close, hands grasping desperately at Jeralt’s thighs. His knees feel weak, his ankles trembling against the ground, and Jeralt’s thrusts have only grown harder, more demanding. His aim is precise, cruel: he strikes true at Dimitri’s prostate with each drive of his fingers, rubbing with thick callus and pulling tears from Dimitri’s eyes.

Dimitri sniffles and says, “I, I,” searching for the words to describe the pounding pressure that mounts within his body. He feels hot, prickly all over—like he’s too big for his body, his own arousal threatening to consume him. “I—Jer— _daddy_ —”

The crest of Dimitri’s orgasm sputters and dies, cut short by the removal of Jeralt’s fingers. Dimitri hears himself sob, hips grinding desperately against Jeralt’s lap, but it’s not _enough_ —and Jeralt laughs, ruffling his hair and hooking a thumb just inside his swollen rim.

“Good boy,” he says, scratching his nails lightly against the nape of Dimitri’s neck. “How much longer do you think we can go?”


	6. belly bulge (sylvain/seteth)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW for minor dub-con, cumflation, and minor breeding kink.**

Seteth presses _in_ with a grunt and a hiss, punching all of the air out of Sylvain’s body. Sylvain whines, overwhelmed and overeager, his hands grasping desperately at the edge of Seteth’s desk as Seteth pins him against the dark wood. Seteth’s cock is huge, disproportionately so—and Sylvain hasn’t seen it, but he can feel the subtle ridges of it as it presses deeper, fucks him harder. He feels the sting of Seteth’s claws where they dig into his shoulders, curling against him like talons as Seteth snarls above him.

“ _You_ —” Seteth groans, breathing hot against the back of Sylvain’s neck. “Is this punishment enough for you, Gautier? Was it worth it, to see me like this—a monster?” He presses his tongue to the top notch of Sylvain’s spine, licking at the sweat that beads on his hairline. “Or perhaps this is what you wanted, all along? Tell me—did you figure it out yourself, or did somebody tell you? Was it that Riegan boy?”

Seteth’s pace is merciless, fast and rough and unrelenting in its cruelty. It takes Sylvain a moment to find his voice, biting out words between the moans and whines that Seteth fucks from between his swollen lips. “No,” Sylvain gasps, trying to focus as his eyes roll back into his head. His cock is trapped between his stomach and the desk, leaking as it’s squished painfully against the wood. “No, I—it was. It—”

Seteth rears back and Sylvain hears the flapping of wings, before he’s tugged from the desk and pulled flush against Seteth’s body. He can feel the scales the poke from between the shreds of Seteth’s robes, now: they scrape and chafe at his naked back, overstimulating him until he’s nothing but a sobbing mess. Seteth holds him up entirely, now; Sylvain is dead weight in his arms.

“Tell me who it was,” Seteth growls in his ear, the point of one fang teasing at his ear. The pain of it spirals deep and hot in Sylvain’s gut. His thrusts are slower, now, but no less deep, no less punishing. “Tell me who figured it out.”

Sylvain’s head falls back against Seteth’s shoulder, eyes unfocused and unseeing as his body twitches on Seteth’s cock. “Linhardt,” he breathes, the name punctuated by a broken moan. “It was— _fuck_ —”

Seteth’s cock swells impossibly larger, catching on the swollen rim of Sylvain’s hole—it fills him to bursting, his own lungs struggling to breathe around the weight of Seteth inside of him. Seteth rumbles against him, a low, rising growl, and says, “Did he warn you what would happen, then? Did he tell you—” a stuttered thrust, a pained moan—“what would happen, if you interrupted a _saint_ during his rut?”

Sylvain’s mind whirrs, overwhelmed and confused. “I didn’t know,” he manages, throwing his hands behind himself for purchase. His fingers find Seteth’s nape, rough with scales and wisps of coarse hair, and when he digs his fingers _in_ , Seteth howls. His thrusts become increasingly erratic, claws drawing points of blood from Sylvain’s hips. “I didn’t know, I didn’t—”

“Then you won’t tell anyone,” Seteth hisses. His lips are a brand against Sylvain’s throat. “You won’t tell anyone, Gautier, what we’ve done. Swear it to me, _now_ , before—”

“I swear,” Sylvain gasps, cock leaking where it bobs frantically between his legs.

Seteth groans, low and deep, grip tightening on Sylvain as he presses his cock as deep as he can. Sylvain feels it twitch inside of him, hot and animal where it rests—and then Seteth is coming, violent spurts that settle in Sylvain’s belly and make him _full_.

“Fuck. _Fuck_.” One of Sylvain’s hands falls from Seteth’s neck, nonsensically seeking his stomach—he feels bloated, fuller than he’s ever been, and—when his fingers touch the taut skin of his belly, swollen around the weight of Seteth’s cock, his knees buckle.

Seteth catches him, holds him steady; there’s no escape from this, it seems, and Sylvain watches as Seteth pumps him fuller, bigger, heavier. “Look at yourself,” Seteth says, at once awed and demanding. Seteth’s hand slips from Sylvain’s hip to his belly, caressing the bloated curve of it as he continues to empty himself. “Do you understand, Gautier? Do you know what I have given you?”

“No,” Sylvain groans, disbelieving. He feels lightheaded, disconnected; Seteth’s hands on his body don’t feel real, even when his claws tickle against his groin. He can’t see his cock over the bulge of his own stomach, but his cock jumps at the thought, drunk on pain and sex and the unspoken promise of being _bred_.

Seteth’s hand wraps loosely around Sylvain’s neglected cock, thumbing carefully at the head—Sylvain worries briefly, wildly, about his claws, but Seteth’s grip remains gentle. When at last Sylvain’s orgasm crests over him, he feels his body lock against Seteth’s: he goes rigid before falling, boneless, against Seteth’s sweaty chest.

“Fuck,” he says, whining when the aftershocks force his hole to flutter relentlessly around Seteth’s cock. It’s hard to think, even harder to speak.

“Indeed,” Seteth says.


	7. feet (sylvain/hubert)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **no additional warnings apply.**

It’s their first night back in Garreg Mach; they’ve been plied with alcohol and bitter sweets, thrown into a party that surely won’t end for another three days. Enbarr was once famous for their feasts, Sylvain remembers idly—it’s no wonder that Edelgard, now Empress of Fodlan, would extend that tradition to the rest of the continent.

He and Hubert have stolen a moment alone. It comes as a surprise to both of them: Sylvain falling to his knees, drunk on victory, while Hubert shudders above him on the bed. Sylvain has already lost his shirt, the laces of his trousers undone; it is Hubert who sits on the bed, flushed with wine and staring at Sylvain.

“You’re overdressed,” Sylvain says, grabbing at Hubert’s stylized boots with two hands. He’s careful with the leather, stroking gently at the polished curve of it, and when he grips the ankle, he starts to tug the shoe from Hubert’s foot. Hubert, to his momentary surprise, allows this—only grunts and shifts, settling his weight onto his straining wrists. “Let me change that, hm?”

He places the boot to his left, at the end of the bed. When he returns to tug at the other boot, he meets Hubert’s gaze for a single, hot moment before dipping forward to press a kiss at the curve of his knee. Hubert’s breath hitches, his leg twitching in Sylvain’s grasp, and Sylvain merely laughs before carefully slipping the boot from Hubert’s leg.

Hubert remains seated and silent, sizing Sylvain up with furrowed brows. Sylvain remains kneeling before him, a soft smile on his face, mind blissfully empty but for the warmth of Hubert’s body and the soft angle of his calves. He brings one hand to Hubert’s sole, the other to the damp crease of his knee; when Hubert doesn’t stop him, he leans in to scrape his teeth lightly against the swell of Hubert’s calf. It twitches against him, flesh breaking out in goosebumps, and he nuzzles his face into the coarse, dark hair. He kisses it, then, drawing his lips from Hubert’s knee to his shin to the bony jut of his ankle, and when Hubert hisses, Sylvain offers a single, teasing bite.

“Do you like this?” he asks, propping his cheek against Hubert’s shin as he glances up. He presses his thumb into the callused arch of Hubert’s foot, scratching lightly with his nail before massaging deeper against the ball. “Do I make you feel good?”

Hubert’s face is impossible to read as he says, “Sylvain,” his lips pursed against a groan. He doesn’t pull away, though, and when Sylvain readjusts himself—when he settles back on his knees and presses his face to the arch of Hubert’s foot—Hubert _whines_ , a confused, breathy noise. “What are you…”

Sylvain keeps massaging, both thumbs wringing alternating grunts and moans from Hubert’s mouth. When at last he places an open-mouthed kiss to the side of Hubert’s foot, eyes fluttering shut as Sylvain _breathes_ , grounding himself through Hubert, Hubert speaks.

“Is this truly how you wish to spend our evening, Gautier?” It’s condescending, _rude_ , and Sylvain becomes aware for the first time of how his cock aches between his legs. “On your knees like a dog?”

The words hit Sylvain with more force than he expects, desire and shame threading him like a needle. “Yes,” he breathes, because he does. “Yes, I. Let me.”


	8. watersports (claude/sylvain)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW for trans claude (amab language), dick-stepping, and minor face-slapping.**

“Are you sure you’re ready?” asks Claude, hovering above Sylvain. His brows are furrowed in concentration as he cups Sylvain’s jaw, smoothing his thumb over the swell of his lower lip. “This is going to be a lot.”

Sylvain nods, parting his lips allow Claude’s thumb to press inside of his mouth. “Yes,” he says, as confidently as he can manage. They’ve been preparing for hours, after days of discussion; he’s sure Claude’s bladder must be painfully tight. “I’m sure.”

Claude shifts as he nods, and _there’s_ the shuffle of his knees, the clench of his thighs. It makes Sylvain hot all over, his own cock swelling between his legs. “Alright,” Claude says, and there’s a note of finality in his voice: they’re doing this, then.

Sylvain swallows against a groan, shifting uncomfortably against the bathroom floor. Claude’s tied his hands to the handles on the cabinet door, and even though he sits on a plush, clean towel, his knees and ankles ache where they’re curled beneath his body. There’s a flush blooming on his skin, growing in red patches on his throat and shoulders and chest, and even though he’s cold—even though he’s naked, clothes folded neatly beside the bathtub—he finds himself sweating in anticipation. “Whenever you’re ready, babe,” he says, and feels his fingers twitch against cool metal.

Claude smiles as he slips into character. His face smooths, the tension between his brows lifting, and as he unzips his jeans, he brings a bare foot up to press against Sylvain’s half-hard cock. The pressure is enough to bring Sylvain to full hardness, heat curling eagerly in his gut as Claude kneads his heel against Sylvain’s groin. “I want you to beg for it, I think,” Claude says, and Sylvain _whines_.

“Fuck,” he breathes, already twitching against Claude’s foot. He rolls his hips in little aborted thrusts, awkward with his arms tied taut behind his back, but it’s worth it for the way that Claude shifts and bears more of his weight against him. Sylvain’s cock throbs as it drools precum, dirtying the sole of Claude’s foot even as the dull ache becomes a radiating soreness. “Fuck,” he whines again, eyes fluttering shut. “What do you—what do you want me to say? _Fuck_ —”

Claude’s weight disappears from his cock, and sensation returns to Sylvain in waves: first, in the blinding throbbing of his balls, followed by the overwhelming feeling of _loss_. Claude sneers when Sylvain glances up at him. “You can do better than that, Sylvain.” It’s with careful hands that he pushes his jeans from his hips to his thighs, and then to crumple around his ankles; Sylvain can see the wet jut of his cock through his briefs. “What,” Claude says, stepping out of his jeans to bracket Sylvain’s face with his thighs, “do you want me to do?”

Sylvain’s mouth parts with a gasp, the heady scent of Claude’s arousal nearly thick enough to taste. “I want you,” Sylvain murmurs, moaning when Claude grabs roughly at his chin, “to fuck my face.”

Claude grins. “And?”

“And—” Sylvain swallows. “And. Piss on me.”

“Oh, good _boy_ ,” Claude purrs, slapping Sylvain lightly across the face. He steps back just enough to shove off his briefs, maintaining eye contact with Sylvain all the while—and when he returns, he cups Sylvain’s face with a warm hand and guides his mouth between his legs. “Let’s see how you do, then.”


	9. coming untouched/premature ejaculation (dimitri/dedue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **no additional warnings apply.**

Dimitri can feel the heat of Dedue’s cock radiating through his trousers, warm where he leans his cheek against it. They’re both a little exhausted, a little wine-drunk, but Dedue had looked at him like _that_ during the coronation ceremony, all lowered lids and soft smiles and pride, and—Dimitri had tugged him from the feast with sweaty palms, a whispered moan on his breath as he’d fallen to his knees just inside their shared quarters.

“Dedue,” he whines, feeling Dedue’s cock twitch against his face. “Dedue, will you—will you let me?” His hands shake where they rest on Dedue’s hips, clutching at battle-hardened muscle and the powerful flex of his thighs. “I want to make you feel good.”

Dedue smiles down at him, pupils blown and bright and still so kind, so sweet. Dedue’s hand is gentle where it grips Dimitri’s chin, the callus of his fingers ticklish against Dimitri’s skin. “You already make me feel good, your Highness,” he murmurs, and Dimitri _melts_ , moaning with his mouth pressed open and hot over Dedue’s groin.

Dimitri shifts on his knees, slipping his hands around Dedue’s body to grasp shyly at his ass. “You always say that,” he says, because it’s true. “But— _this_.” He takes a deep breath, squeezing his hands and burying his face against the swell of Dedue’s cock. When he opens his eyes, it’s through lowered lashes. “Let me do this for you.”

“As my king commands,” says Dedue, gentle in its teasing. Then, because he knows that Dimitri wants to hear it: “Yes, Dimitri. I would like that.”

“Thank you,” Dimitri breathes, and wastes little time in unlacing Dedue’s trousers. He tugs them down around Dedue’s thighs, his knees, fighting with the supple leather where it clings to Dedue’s body. At last Dedue’s cock springs free, heavy and hot against Dimitri’s palm, and when Dimitri leans in to nuzzle it, Dedue’s hand finds its way into Dimitri’s hair.

“That’s good,” says Dedue, voice a rumble. “You’re perfect, your Highness. My king.”

Dimitri feels himself float on the praise, already stretching his jaw to take Dedue into his mouth. He’s done this once, maybe twice—all during the war, all in the dark of night, hushed and hurried and frantic with the fear of death. Now, Dedue stands alive before him, thick and strong and perfect, and the weight of his cock against Dimitri’s tongue is enough to make Dimitri cry. His own cock is hard in his pants, hot where it sticks to his thigh, leaking precum with each shallow thrust of Dedue’s cock. Dimitri moans around the feeling of it, of being _full_ , of Dedue slipping so far down his throat that he can’t breathe, tears slipping from his eyes and dripping from his chin with spit.

Dedue tastes—he tastes amazing, Dimitri thinks, pulling off for air and laving the flat of his tongue over the flushed head. Precum is salty and warm on his palette, slippery when he swallows and feels it settle into his belly. It feels like a claim, like a brand—that Dimitri can take such an intimate part of Dedue and carry it inside of himself.

He places a single kiss at the underside of Dedue’s crown before murmuring, hot and hoarse, “Please use me,” and he doesn’t miss the way Dedue’s big hand tightens in his hair.

“Are you sure?” Dedue asks quietly. Kindly.

“Yes. Yes,” Dimitri says. He rubs his face against Dedue’s cock, smearing tears and spit and precum on his cheek as he nuzzles the thatch of wiry, silver hair at the base. He hears Dedue’s breath hitch, feels the way his balls tighten against his body—and then Dedue’s other hands slips into his hair alongside the first, and he’s guiding Dimitri’s slack mouth back onto his cock.

Dedue fucks his face like he means it—like he _wants_ it, like it’s what Dimitri deserves. He controls Dimitri’s movements with a bruising strength, plunging his cock into Dimitri’s mouth with smooth, controlled thrusts. Dimitri hears himself whining, hears himself gag and moan and gasp as Dedue fucks his mouth, fucks his throat—he keeps his eyes closed, fingers twitching against the powerful surge of Dedue’s thighs.

Dimitri’s cock aches where it’s pressed and confined within the tight leather of his leggings, balls tight and hot, and he feels _molten_ —each time Dedue’s cock bullies into his throat, each time Dedue pulls back just far enough to smear spit and pre on Dimitri’s swollen lips, each time Dedue grunts and moans and tightens his fingers in Dimitri’s hair—Dimitri feels the tension in his gut coil tighter, burn brighter, until there’s a snap and release and he’s _coming_ , untouched and overwhelmed with Dedue’s fat cock halfway down his throat.

Dedue may notice, or he may not; he continues to use Dimitri until he pulls Dimitri’s head from his cock, swiping spittle from Dimitri’s lower lip as he tugs at his cock with quick, sure strokes. He comes fast and hot, painting Dimitri’s face white with his seed, and there’s a horrifying moment when Dimitri feels himself _leak_ , cock weakly spurting cum onto his thighs.

“Fuck,” Dimitri says, throat raw. He licks his lips, shivering at the taste of Dedue as he glances up.

Dedue smiles, swiping a thumb through the cooling mess on Dimitri’s face and pressing it between Dimitri’s open lips. “Beautiful,” he says.


	10. exhibitionism (dimitri/sylvain)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW for a/b/o, breeding, public sex, minor drug mention, and stomach bulge.**

Dimitri presses in with a grunt and a howl, and if Sylvain’s wrists weren’t bound, he knows he’d be clawing wildly at his shoulders. He struggles against his restraints with frantic, jerking movements, his ankles straining against the leather shackles that hold him open—and they clink and they jostle, but they don’t _give_ , instead leaving him naked and bared to the entirety of Dimitri’s court. The thought had terrified him earlier, left him shivering with anxiety in Dimitri’s blankets the night before, but now… _now_ his body flushes with the knowledge of his role, that Dimitri has claimed him so thoroughly that even the church must recognize it.

Dimitri leans in against him, crushes his weight against Sylvain’s chest as he breathes hot and ragged against his throat. “How do you feel?” he asks, trembling with exertion. The rut had hit him first, brought on by Mercedes’ tea the night before; he’d been inconsolable the entire evening, rutting rudely in his sleep against the sopping wet of Sylvain’s cunt. “Do you like this, little one? Being on display like this?”

Sylvain throws his head back with a low whine, baring his throat to Dimitri’s sharp teeth. Already his neck is mottled with bruises, stark outlines of Dimitri’s canines and the blunt scrape of incisors. Each time Dimitri gnaws at him, lavs his tongue over his pulse point, he circles closer to the throbbing of his scent gland—and they moan in unison when Dimitri’s teeth finally grasp at it and _suck_. Sylvain hasn’t taken his mark yet, hasn’t allowed Dimitri to claim him, because _this_ —this is what they’ve had to wait for, all ceremony and pomp with the full moon glowing lazily above them.

Dimitri’s thrusts grow erratic, pumping wildly as Sylvain squirms beneath him. This show will be the first of many, Sylvain knows, so even as Dimitri presses him open—even when he leans back to survey him, to tease at the wet lips of his cunt as he spears him open—even as Dimitri moans and holds his knees further still against his chest, face flushed with animalistic desire—even as Dimitri wails and comes, spurting deep within Sylvain and stuffing him full, Sylvain shudders and smiles and goads him on, rolling his hips against his Alpha and clenching tightly around the thick knot of his cock.

“Yes,” he says, grinning up at Dimitri’s panting face. His own heat is settling into his bones, curling hot within his belly, and he feels the stretch and yawn of his desire as it surges to meet Dimitri’s. “ _Yes_ ,” he cries, when Dimitri continues thrusting, slick and cum slipping from his cunt around Dimitri’s girth. “Dimitri, Dimitri, _oh_ —”

Sweat drips from Dimitri’s temples onto Sylvain’s chest, a searing _drip drip drip_ that stains the paint that decorates their bodies. Dimitri’s rhythm hardly falters, even as he pants roughly above Sylvain; the air is thick with sweat and sex and exertion, a physical thing that overwhelms them both. All around them, dressed in their finest dresses and robes and jewelry, stand the mismatched members of Dimitri’s court—and they _stare_ , performing their duty solemnly and honestly, a witness to their coupling. Sylvain feels himself throb at the thought, his cunt clenching roughly around Dimitri, because he can see the crowd of them all as they titter and gasp and moan in unison, hands slipping underskirts as omegas and betas and alphas alike fall to their knees. Mercie had told him: this was an _event_ , a show, and the court would indulge; after all, pheromones were never so strong as when they king took his mate.

The pressure in Sylvain’s belly tightens before it breaks, spiraling through his body as his toes curl and his fingers twitch and his cunt _throbs_ , sucking desperately at Dimitri’s cock and the knot that swells between them. Dimitri fucks him through his climax, each thrust harder than the last and deeper, until Sylvain is crying to the animal noise of flesh slapping flesh.

His orgasm crests once, twice, an overwhelming third time—and then he crashes, whimpering when at last Dimitri’s knot catches and _swells_ , pressing him open and plugging him up. Dimitri comes again with a howl, head thrown back as his shoulders tremble with the effort of holding him upright, and this time, Sylvain feels the seed that settles in his belly: violent spurts that make him shiver, eyes rolling back into his head as he feels his belly expand. It’s not much, not yet, but by the end of today—

“More?” Dimitri purrs, his weight settling over Sylvain’s shaking body. There’s a growl in his voice, a deep ache that makes Sylvain chase his mouth until Dimitri’s tongue is halfway down his throat. They kiss and they kiss, and by the time Dimitri pulls away, Sylvain feels the telltale swirling of desire in his gut.

“Yes, please,” he says, and grins. “Make me yours, your Highness.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, this is in the same universe as [citrus and cinnamon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24049006) 💕


	11. oviposition (dimitri/sylvain)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW for teratophilia (sharkmitri), Two Dicks, and stomach bulge.**

“This will feel strange,” Dimitri warns him, seconds before his cocks begin to swell. “You must trust me, alright?”

Sylvain nods dazedly against Dimitri’s shoulder, hands grasping wildly in the sand on either side of his body. Dimitri’s poised above him, his slick, cool hands folding Sylvain’s thighs against his heaving chest. This isn’t the first time Dimitri has taken him, but it is the first time that he’s been— _ripe_ , Dimitri had said, with an odd sort of flush to his face. He’d been acting strange for most of the week, bringing Sylvain little shells from the seabed, bits of coral that had floated up in his lagoon, and Sylvain had accepted them all with a smile and a nod and a large amount of confusion. When he’d asked, finally, one hand on Dimitri’s pale arm, Dimitri had said,

“It is our season, Sylvain.”

Which, Sylvain had learned, meant eggs.

He writhes around the stretch of Dimitri’s cocks, rim fluttering against the gradual swelling—larger, now, than Sylvain is used to, thicker and more unyielding than Dimitri’s alien cocks. He knows what to expect, of course—or rather, knows what Dimitri had told him—but the first breach has Sylvain howling against the sand, cock leaking onto his belly. It’s bigger than he expects, rounder, harder— _fuller_ , shifting steadily deeper into his body until it jostles against his prostate.

There are tears in his eyes when the second egg begins to press inside, and by the third, Sylvain hears himself crying. There’s a fourth and a fifth and a sixth, and with the seventh, Dimitri is panting harshly against Sylvain’s ear, gills flapping wetly at his waist.

“How—how many more?” Sylvain croaks, heavy already with Dimitri’s spawn. Even with Dimitri pressed tightly against him, chest to chest, he can feel the expansion of his belly, his cock curved against the underside. “I can’t remember, Dimitri, how many did you say—”

“Ten,” Dimitri says, “or…or twelve, I am not certain.” He drags his teeth along the junction of Sylvain’s throat as though in apology, nuzzling closer as the eighth egg presses past Sylvain’s swollen rim. “How are you?”

Sylvain groans, overstimulated and tired, fingers twitching against the sand with each brush of his prostate. “I’m fine,” he says, and gasps when he feels the ninth egg breach him. “I’m fine, I’m fine, just—”

Dimitri moans and stutters, now cradling Sylvain’s head with one hand while the other reaches between their bodies to grasp Sylvain’s cock. The tenth egg is slower, more reluctant, and Sylvain clenches violently around it as it enters his body. Dimitri’s hand is clumsy where it grips him, jerking him off in short, quick strokes, and Sylvain shivers against him, sobbing openly when the eleventh egg nudges his hole.

“Last one,” Dimitri promises, smearing precum at the head of Sylvain’s cock. “Last one, Sylvain, just one more, alright? I need you to relax.”

Sylvain relaxes as best he can, body pulled taut and stretched open and _wanting_ , and when the final egg slips inside of him—he wails, thrashing against the sand as he comes. He comes until he screams, until each contraction around the eggs makes him gasp and cry and come anew, and then, once he’s exhausted, raw and used and impossibly full, Dimitri pulls him close and butts his nose against Sylvain’s wet cheek.

“Sleep,” he says, cocks still shifting inside of Sylvain. “Sleep, Sylvain. I will take care of you.”


	12. sex pollen (dimitri/sylvain)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **no additional warnings apply.**

Sylvain finds Dimitri in the med tent, swaddles in blankets and sweatier than Sylvain’s even seen him. His face is pink with fever, eyelashes dark against his cheeks as he shivers against a chill. Sylvain can’t tell if he’s asleep or awake, but he approaches anyway, a knot of anxiety settling in his gut.

“We’re trying to break his fever,” says Mercedes, knitting on an unoccupied bunk. “He’s been resisting healing magic, and I’m worried about his water intake.”

Sylvain nods his head, mind oddly blank. “Yeah,” he says, because he has nothing else to say. As he draws closer, he sees the beads of sweat on Dimitri’s brow, slick against his skin and dampening his hair at his temples. His teeth are chattering, Sylvain realizes, and his eyes move rapidly, almost as though he’s having a nightmare.

“Is he asleep?” Sylvain asks, reaching out to touch before stopping himself. He doesn’t want to wake Dimitri.

Mercedes nods. “For now,” she says, needles clacking. It had been an easy mission, hardly more than a weekend—Dimitri is the only one in the medic tent, and they’re still half a day from Garreg Mach with no way to move him. They’ve sent a raven, but for now, they wait. “He’s been sleeping in fits.”

“I see,” Sylvain says, before giving into his urge to touch. He keeps his fingers light, soft where they smooth Dimitri’s brow; the heat of his flesh is scalding. “Hey,” he says to Dimitri, brushing a cool thumb over his cheek, “you’re gonna pull through this, alright?”

Dimitri shifts and grunts, trying to turn onto his side, but the blankets keep him locked in his position. His eyes remain closed, but he leans his face into Sylvain’s hand, lips parting on a soft exhale.

Sylvain glances to Mercedes. “He’s getting worse,” he says, trying to keep the edge from his voice. His fear is so much easier to feel as anger. “Why is he getting worse?”

Mercedes gives him a pitying look. “We still don’t know what happened,” she says, explaining for the hundredth time. “Dimitri was the only one who was there. You found him, Sylvain—you know more than any of us.”

Sylvain huffs, frowning. “All I saw was a bunch of vines and flowers,” he says, because it’s true. “There was no one else there. I mean—flames, Mercie. He was just _lying_ there, covered in the stuff.” Dimitri _had_ been covered—head to toe in fluorescent blue powder, so pale it may have been magic. They’d thought it was magic, at first, some kind of spell gone awry, but there hadn’t been anyone else in the area. Not even bandits.

He brushes Dimitri’s hair from his forehead, unsticking the dirty strands and pushing them back. Again, Dimitri leans into the touch, face following Sylvain’s hand with a low whine. Sylvain’s heart races, flush with worry, and he asks Mercedes for a damp cloth.

“Hey, buddy,” Sylvain says, dabbing the cloth against Dimitri’s flushed face. “Is this what you want? Are you hot?”

Dimitri opens his mouth and parts his lips, eyes blinking open with noticeable effort. His pupils are blown wide, and he struggles to focus on Sylvain. “Hot,” he says, a low rasp. He glances foggily around the room, head swaying back and forth on his pillow, before his eyes slip shut again. “Sylvain…”

“Yeah?” Sylvain cups Dimitri’s face with his hand. “Hey, hey—” He smiles when Dimitri’s eyes drift open. “I’m right here.”

Dimitri groans, turning his head to nuzzle against Sylvain’s wrist. “Feel strange,” he says, breath hot on Sylvain’s skin. The air in the tent is so humid. “Sylvain, I think—am I dreaming?”

Sylvain shakes his head. “No, your Highness,” he says, brows furrowed. When Dimitri’s gaze begins to wander, shifting without focus, Sylvain gently guides Dimitri’s gaze back to his. “You’re awake. Hey.”

Dimitri swallows roughly, his throat bobbing. Sylvain tries not to follow the movement with his eyes, but—Dimitri whines against his hand, an awful, pained noise, and Sylvain glances at Mercie just before Dimitri closes his teeth around the meat of Sylvain’s palm.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Sylvain says in surprise, barely managing to keep his hand still. Dimitri’s teeth worry at the skin, kneading Sylvain’s callus between his teeth before soothing the mark with his tongue. “What the fuck?”

“Feels good,” Dimitri says, bumping his nose against Sylvain’s hand. His eyes are shut, but he’s still moving against the blankets, trying to get closer to Sylvain. “Smell good.”

“Uh,” says Sylvain. “Mercedes?”

“I think,” says Mercedes, setting down her knitting, “that I may know what’s wrong.”


	13. spanking (sylvain/dedue + dimitri)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **no additional warnings apply.**

Dedue dumps Sylvain over his lap with a rough flourish, grunting when Sylvain lands hard against him. Dedue is seated on the stone steps of the throne room, and Dimitri looks down on them both with a dispassionate expression as Sylvain struggles in Dedue’s lap.

“You were quite rude, earlier,” says Dimitri, with all the airs of a king. Sylvain can barely see him over the bulk of Dedue’s shoulders, but he tries, and the scowl on Dimitri’s face has him whimpering. Already his cock is half-hard in his trousers, aching where it’s crushed between his body and Dedue’s. “To think that you would question _my_ authority during such a meeting…” Dimitri _tsk_ s. “Appalling.”

“I’m sorry,” Sylvain says without honesty, without virtue. He absolutely _isn’t_ sorry, and the three of them know that. The knowledge of Sylvain’s transgression hangs heavy as sin, hot as the palm of Dedue’s big hand where it settles against Sylvain’s thigh. “It won’t happen again, your Highness.”

“Your _Majesty_ ,” Dimitri corrects with a curl of his lip. He uncrosses his legs and spreads them, knees open on either side of the throne. He rests his cheek on his fist, weary and unimpressed. He rolls his eyes and waves to Dedue, signaling the beginning of Sylvain’s punishment. Dimitri doesn’t look at Sylvain when he says, “Ten to start with, I think.”

Sylvain feels Dedue nod and shift, readjusting Sylvain in his lap with large, battle-callused hands. “As you wish,” he says, and Sylvain shivers at the low growl of it.

“Dimitri,” Sylvain says, because _ten_? “I told you, it won’t happen—”

Dedue’s open hand spanks Sylvain without warning, without delay; Sylvain bites his lip against a scream as his body jolts and shudders.

“Count them,” Dimitri says. “If you don’t, I’d have you naked.”

Sylvain moans before he can stop himself, spit drooling from his mouth to the floor. “Fuck,” he says, squirming, before amending, “ _yeah_ , of course, I—”

“Dedue, start over.”

“Yes, your Majesty.” Dedue spanks Sylvain in the same place, high and hard against his left cheek.

“One,” Sylvain counts aloud, hands scrabbling against Dedue’s thighs. He’s at an odd angle, legs bent awkwardly across the floor where Dedue pins him, and he’s more worried about keeping his grip than—

Dedue strikes him again, twice, three times, all in the same place. Sylvain pants through his words, counting raggedly— _two, three, f—four_ —until his hips are rutting mindlessly against the heat of Dedue’s thigh. The fifth strike lands on his other cheek, blooming warmth across his ass, and Dedue stops to pet him for a moment before aiming the sixth for his upper thigh. By the seventh, Sylvain is drooling with his mouth open, eyes fluttering shut as he braces himself for the next—and with the eighth, he feels tears begin to drip down his cheeks, mixing with the spit that falls from his chin.

“Nine,” Sylvain cries, cock fully hard and throbbing between his legs. Dedue pauses again, just for a moment, his hand sweet and cajoling where he traces the crease of Sylvain’s ass. Sylvain whimpers and presses back, arching his spine into Dedue’s grip, and when Dedue _squeezes_ , Sylvain feels his cock leak.

The tenth strike hits just above the first one, radiating heat and sparking electricity through each knob of Sylvain’s spine. Dedue hits hard and fast, precise to a fault: Sylvain knows he’ll have bruises in the morning, even with the added padding of his leather trousers.

“Ten,” Sylvain pants, voice wrecked and cracked down the middle.


	14. somnophilia (dimitri/sylvain)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW for pregnancy, trans sylvain (afab and amab language), and under-negotiated kink.**

Dimitri wakes him up with a groan and a sigh, breath hot on the back of Sylvain’s neck.

Sylvain is a light sleeper, nowadays: the kicking in his belly has only grown more insistent over the last two months, and with the shrinking of his bladder and the sweaty press of Dimitri’s chest to his back, Sylvain wakes with a start. He’s cranky, at first, torn out of a particularly delicious dream by Dimitri’s damp snores, but—when he readjusts on the bed, shifting his legs into a more comfortable position and arching his back against the weight of his belly, he feels the hot press of Dimitri’s cock against his ass.

He rolls his hips back against it, stifling a laugh when Dimitri moans in his sleep. They sleep naked because Sylvain is always _hot_ , and Dimitri is a goddamn furnace—and so Dimitri’s cock slips easily into the cleft of Sylvain’s ass, crown butting against the hot pucker of Sylvain’s hole. Sylvain shivers, his own cock beginning to swell from beneath its hood, and he feels himself leak at the thought of sinking _back_ , of taking Dimitri’s cock inside of himself and holding him there.

Dimitri’s hips move on their own, now, driving his cock to jab repeatedly at his ass—so it’s with some frustration that Sylvain reaches back to grab it, guiding it between his legs and through the slick folds of his cunt. Dimitri shudders against him, breathy little noises that slip from his throat as Sylvain tightens his thighs. The head of Dimitri’s cock slips just deep enough to kiss Sylvain’s, tearing a bitten-back groan from Sylvain’s mouth.

Sylvain hisses and sits up, empty and frustrated. Dimitri whispers something in his sleep when Sylvain’s body disappears from his, hands searching momentarily for the lost contact, before he flops back onto the mattress and nestles more deeply into the covers. With Dimitri on his back, Sylvain thinks—

He straddles Dimitri quietly, with more care and concern than he thought himself capable of. Dimitri doesn’t stir, not even when Sylvain almost slips and has to settle the weight of his swollen belly on Dimitri’s abs; so it’s with some amount of confidence that Sylvain grabs Dimitri’s flushed, leaking cock and guides it into himself.

Sylvain seats himself with a groan, head tipped back between his shoulders. He’s trying to be quiet, biting his lips against the moans that threaten to spill from his throat, but Dimitri’s cock is so _big_ , so perfect where it stretches him open and stuffs him full. Dimitri doesn’t move beneath him, still sleeping soundly, and Sylvain is careful when he moves: keeps his knees spread on either side of Dimitri’s hips, hands braced on his own ankles rather than on Dimitri.

Sylvain rolls his hips slowly, quietly, feeling Dimitri’s cock flex inside of him. He stills when Dimitri shifts, twitching against the mattress, but when his eyes remain closed, Sylvain resumes his pace. His sense of balance is—not what it used to be, not so deep into his pregnancy, but god if he’s not _sopping_ , leaking down the length of Dimitri’s cock. He fucks himself with as much restraint as he can muster, fingers itching to grab Dimitri’s chest, the pink swell of his nipples, but he _can’t_ , has to stay quiet and gentle and still.

Dimitri’s gasping now, tossing his head back and forth on the pillow with each clench of Sylvain’s cunt. His eyes move rapidly beneath his eyelids, lashes fluttering, and his hands are fists in the sheets, white-knuckled and desperate. He’s quiet when he comes, mouth falling open with a silent gasp as he empties himself inside of Sylvain—and Sylvain follows him, gushing around his cock and grinding down as hard as he dares. His body tenses and his cunt throbs, climax surging through him as sweat drips between his shoulder blades.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he gasps, barely above a whisper. He pulls off of Dimitri with care, graceful as he can be, and— _oh_ , he should clean up, but… “Goodnight, your Highness,” he says instead, pressing a single, chaste kiss between Dimitri’s furrowed brows.

He’ll explain in the morning.


	15. breeding (caspar/ashe)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW for magic mpreg**

Ashe is halfway to nirvana when Caspar comes inside of him for the second time, stuffing him so full that Ashe feels the excess cum bulge and spill from around Caspar’s cock. His eyes roll back as his own cock twitches in response, dribbling onto his belly as his body trips desperately into a third, hard-fought orgasm. His fingers and the tips of his toes go numb, his back arched from the bed, and he distantly hears himself scream when Caspar somehow, miraculously fucks him through it.

His vision returns in fits and starts, clouds of dark fog drifting across his eyes as he blinks up at Caspar. They’re both worse for wear, it seems: Caspar’s eyes are half-crossed, sweat dripping from his brows as he bites his lips and moves woodenly, thrusts robotic and exhausted. When Ashe glances between their bodies, he sees Caspar still hard, cock sliding effortlessly in and out of Ashe’s swollen hole. Mercie had warned them—of course she had warned them, in that sweet, soft voice of hers—that this spell was not to be trifled with, and they had known that going in, but.

But.

Ashe’s cock sits flushed and heavy on his belly, curved over the mess of sweat and spit and cum that dries filthily on his skin. He feels overwhelmed, debauched, _used_ —and yet, when he looks up at Caspar, his heart does a funny little flip in his chest, and his miserable cock twitches despite the pain and exhaustion in his joints.

Caspar catches him staring and grins, lopsided and silly. “Hey babe,” he pants, slowing the rhythm of his hips. “How are you, uh.” A shudder rolls through his body, and Ashe whines when he feels Caspar’s cock flex halfway inside of his hole. He watches the line of Caspar’s throat bob as he swallows. “How are you holding up?”

Ashe smiles serenely up at Caspar, exhaustion settling bone-deep even as he feels his balls grow tight. “Good,” he says, quiet and breathless. He shifts on the bed, arching his back against the pillows to find a more comfortable position, and— _oh_ , there it is. He gasps when Caspar’s cock drags past his prostate, wiggling his hips to get closer. Caspar’s already come twice, and there’s a part of him, perhaps absurdly, that knows— _hopes_ —that the spell has taken, but his body still throbs with desire, already imagining the slender curve of his belly beneath his cock.

Caspar bends over him, planting both fists on either side of Ashe’s head. His breathing is labored, breath coming in short, sharp gasps, but Ashe spurs him on, rolling his hips to meet Caspar’s pace. “You think it’s worked?” Ashe asks coyly. He watches as a shudder works its way down Caspar’s spine, stuttering his hips. “Think you— _ah_ —think you got me knocked up, yet?”

“ _Shit_ ,” Caspar groans, elbows nearly buckling. Ashe giggles, moaning when his laughter causes him to clench around Caspar’s cock, and—“Fuck, _fuck_ , Ashe, I’m gonna—goddess, I’m—”

Ashe throws his arms around Caspar’s neck and pulls him close, crushing their bodies together as Caspar’s spurts deliriously inside of Ashe’s fluttering hole. “Yes,” Ashe says, “ _yes_ , come on—yeah, hey, that’s it, fill me up, just like that, just like—”

Ashe’s fourth and final orgasm takes him by surprise, a blunt force against the back of his head: his vision goes fuzzy, mouth frozen in a wild moan when he spills between their bodies. He feels his fingers twitch and scratch at Caspar’s back, drawing thick, animal lines down the length of his shoulders, and distantly, he hears Caspar howl.

By the time he’s regained control of his limbs, drawing them shakily to his chest, Caspar’s already flopped onto his back and is doing his best imitation of a starfish. Ashe clears his throat and asks, somewhat timidly, “Do you think it worked?”

Caspar snorts, even as his eyes drift shut. “Duh,” he says. “Even if it didn’t—we’ll just have to do it again, yeah?”

Ashe smiles. “Yeah,” he says.


	16. pregnancy (hubert/solo)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW for magic mpreg, minor emeto.**

The spell is—different than Hubert expects, magic settling in odd places throughout his body. The initial incantation makes his fingers itch, the skin of his palms turning red and puffy; the poisoned flesh of his arms grows dark. There’s an odd buzzing at the base of his skull, like a wasp nest as settled between his ears, and when he moves, he sees the floor shift in front of him. The well of his magic feels larger, wider—stronger, perhaps, but when he reaches for it, he finds it closed and distant.

He packs up quickly, smudging chalk and dousing candles before they can melt onto the floor. His study plunges into half-darkness, lit coolly by the full moon, and when he brushes the dirt from his robes, he feels nausea rise in his gut. He pauses, examining the sensation, and finds that it’s different from poison, different still from magic drain. He frowns as his body lurches, heaving dryly as he makes for the window. Those few steps bring a sheen to his skin, draining the color from his face and making his hands shine waxen with cold sweat, and when he throws open the windows, he shivers at the cool air. A fever, then?

Edelgard’s final campaign is mere days away, approaching faster with each passing day. All of them have been rushing to prepare; not even Sylvain can ignore the gravity of this task. He slips between the library and the training hall with a dour expression, brows permanently furrowed as the tan of his freckles pales on his face. He’d expressed interest in Hubert’s research several weeks ago, a genuine question posed as a jest over chess, and Hubert, with his fever-addled brain, thinks now that he should have indulged him.

He licks his lips against the breeze, attempting once more to pull at his magic. He feels it lurch inside of him before shrinking back, curling against the back wall of his mind. He scowls. The spell, he’d thought, had been perfect, if somewhat antiquated: written before the widespread adoption of tomes, it was meant to enhance the caster’s natural ability, temporarily increasing their capacity for magic. Hubert had done his research, has _always_ done his research—he’d spent long nights in the library, sneaking through the shadows of Abyss in search of materials. He’d blessed the candles on a pagan altar, pressed white chalk by himself, stolen dried herbs from the professor’s stores; he’d barred his doors with blood wards. He’d fasted for twenty-four hours, much to Sylvain’s grating insistence that he eat a _scone_ at dinner. A bit of ice cream. The way Sylvain had pushed his half-empty plate across the table—

Hubert’s stomach growls, and the nausea doubles. He can still feel the tingling in his arms, sweat cooling on his shoulder in a sheer, tacky layer. Something shifts in his belly, almost like another rumbling of his stomach, but it’s too— _present_ , too tactile, too precise. Hubert’s skin crawls as perspiration drips from his nape, curling around the first knob of his spine, and when he reaches for his stomach, cold fear whispers behind his ribs.

Even through the heavy folds of his robe, he can feel the distention of his stomach—taut and round, curved against the flat of his palm. Fear spikes before he pushes it down, swallowing around a swollen tongue and forcing his thoughts toward a more rational path. His magic is still locked to him, but when he flexes his fingers against his skin, something flexes back, and there’s a tickle of something arcane in his chest. The roof of his mouth tastes of ozone.

Hubert disrobes in front of the mirror, hands steady and gaze hard. The cool air feels pleasant on his skin, calming in a way that feels grotesquely sentimental, but the sharp hunch of his shoulders relaxes nonetheless. His body is mostly unchanged, but for—he frowns again, brows furrowed as he skates his fingers along the upper curve of his stomach. It’s smaller than it had felt, subtle in the way that it juts from his body, but when he turns to the side, he feels the weight of it on his hips. He’s unfamiliar with pregnancy, outside of basic knowledge; Edelgard had insisted early on that such a feat of nature was impossible for her and therefore irrelevant. Hubert realizes now that he’s made a grave error.

He taps his fingers against his swollen belly, intrigued when it flexes _back_ : something inside of him writhes, pressing hard against him and creating a noticeable distention. He taps again, and the same thing occurs; again, and once more. It indulges him until the nausea becomes too strong to bear, and he reaches for his robes again.

Hubert dresses with practiced finesse, fastening his clothes around his neck and down his back. When he studies himself in the mirror, he finds that he looks much the same as he did before; the robes hide him well, dark and formless as they are. He nods slowly, stepping into a confidence that evades him, and moves towards the door. He owes Abyss another visit.


	17. fingers in mouth (dorothea/ingrid)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **no additional warnings apply.**

Ingrid sits on her knees in front of Dorothea, looking up through lowered lashes with a flush high on her cheeks. She looks nervous, Dorothea thinks, but—she smiles when she sees the shameless flex of Ingrid’s thighs, tensing as she rocks her hips in little, desperate circles.

“Look at you,” Dorothea coos, seated on the edge of the bed. She looks down at Ingrid with a cruel smile on her face, head tilted and hair pulled over one shoulder, and she doesn’t miss the way Ingrid’s breath catches when Dorothea slowly, slowly parts her legs. The panties she’d chosen for tonight are nothing more than decoration, split down the crotch and damp with her own arousal; she watches Ingrid sway forward before catching herself, whimpering. “So _good_ for me, aren’t you?”

Ingrid nods, eyes wide. It’s take a while to break her of her embarrassment—she still has a hard time with eye contact, with keeping her voice steady—but she knows when to respond to Dorothea’s questions, how to let herself lean into the subspace that Dorothea is so kindly helping her explore.

Dorothea allows herself a soft smile, using one hand to tilt Ingrid’s jaw up. “Where are we, sweetheart?”

Ingrid blinks through a fog, lashes fluttering as her pupils expand to swallow the sharp emerald of her eyes. “Green,” she breathes, wavering but true. Her mouth falls open when Dorothea drags her thumb across Ingrid’s lower lip.

“Good girl,” Dorothea says, offering a smack to Ingrid’s cheek. Ingrid moans and takes it, pitching forward before righting herself with difficulty. “Do you want to make me feel good, Ingrid?”

Ingrid nods, lips still parted. Dorothea shudders at the thought of having that mouth on her, of fucking herself on that tongue—but _first_.

“Open wide,” Dorothea says, resting two fingers on Ingrid’s lip. Ingrid is obedient, always obedient, and so she opens her mouth wider to allow Dorothea’s fingers to press inside. Dorothea smiles a wicked smile and massages Ingrid’s tongue, pressing down until Ingrid nearly gags around her fingers, muscle frantic beneath Dorothea’s nails. Spit pools around her fingers and drips from the corners of Ingrid’s mouth, trailing down her chin to drip onto the floor. Dorothea keeps her legs spread, leaning forward to rub the sopping length of her cunt against the bed, and prods deeper. She traces Ingrid’s molars, testing the frantic shuddering of Ingrid’s throat; she maps the ridges of her hard palate, hooking her nails and tickling until Ingrid begins to twitch beneath her.

She sweeps her thumb along Ingrid’s upper lip, pushing _up_ until Ingrid’s teeth are bared, and says, as though considering, “I think you’ve passed inspection. What do you think, dear?”

Ingrid swallows around Dorothea’s fingers and nods, careful not to bite. She can’t speak intelligibly, but she does moan a broken _yes_ , accidentally spilling drool down the length of Dorothea’s palm and wrist.

Dorothea withdraws her fingers, wiping them on Ingrid’s cheek before giving her a light slap. It stings on wet skin, a red mark already rising against Ingrid’s delicate, freckled skin. She smiles. “Come on, then,” she says, hooking one hand around the back of Ingrid’s head and pulling her forward. “You know what to do, sweetheart. Make me feel good, alright?”

Brokenly, desperately, Ingrid moans, and sinks between Dorothea’s legs.


	18. a/b/o, heat (dimitri/ashe)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW for a/b/o dynamics, afab and amab language.**

Dimitri’s hands are rough at his hips, thick and callused and delicious where they rub him raw. Ashe presses closer with a feral whine, bumping his nose against Dimitri’s cheek until their lips connect and Dimitri can lick into his mouth. The kiss is a frantic, animal thing, and by the time that one of Dimitri’s hands finds its way between their bodies, Ashe’s lips and chin are slick with spit.

Dimitri teases a finger at Ashe’s hole, parting the slick folds of his cunt and gathering enough slick to circle his aching clit. Ashe bucks against him, hands clawing pathetically at Dimitri’s chest, and even that doesn’t prepare him for when Dimitri presses _in_ —just one finger is enough to make Ashe feel like he’s overfull, throbbing wildly and rutting back against Dimitri’s wrist.

“How sweet of you to check on me,” Dimitri says, voice drunk with heat. He crooks his finger and drives it up, rubbing at Ashe’s upper walls, and Ashe feels himself clench _hard_ before his body desperately, lewdly sucks Dimitri deeper. The sudden feeling of _openness_ makes Ashe’s eyes roll back, and it’s not long before Dimitri has a second finger stuffed into his greedy cunt. “To think that it would be you…”

Ashe loses himself and bites rudely at Dimitri’s collarbone, nails drawing painful lines down the length of his chest. Dimitri may be an omega, but he’s still a prince—a _king_ , his brain reminds him, and he can feel himself lean into the natural dominance that beats in Dimitri’s core. “Yeah,” he pants, nonsensical and leaking around Dimitri’s fingers. “Yeah, yeah—”

Dimitri’s fingers disappear with a disappointing squelch, leaving Ashe floundering on top of Dimitri’s chest. Before Ashe can complain, however, Dimitri grabs at his chin and says, softly, “I want you to do something for me.”

Ashe nods, mouth falling open as he scents the air. The smell of himself on Dimitri’s hand is—

“Sit up and lean back,” Dimitri says, pushing at Ashe’s shoulders until he does as instructed. They’re both naked, slick with sweat and their own arousal, and Ashe shivers at the loss of contact. “Yeah, that’s it, just—” He maneuvers Ashe until their thighs are tangled, Ashe’s cunt on the thick plane of Dimitri’s thigh. Ashe feels himself tremble and Dimitri says, “Balance yourself on my chest, and—yeah, that’s it, _oh_ —Ashe, Ashe, look at you…”

Ashe feels himself blush even as he humps Dimitri’s thigh, soaking his skin with each gush of fluid, and—and, and—Dimitri tugs him closer, just a bit, just enough for Ashe to rub against Dimitri’s cunt, the hard jut of his cock, and—

Dimitri’s head falls back with a loud thump, fingers flexing roughly around Ashe’s waist as their rhythm grows stronger, faster, harder. Dimitri has one leg almost folded over his chest, and Ashe _pushes_ at it, folds him more in half so that he can get a better angle, and—

Dimitri comes first and without warning, belly tensing as a pained cry tears itself from his throat. His grip tightens until it hurts, leaving deep purple imprints on Ashe’s skin, and the thought of being marked like that, by the king’s own hand, tips Ashe over the edge of his own climax.

The blankets beneath them are a mess of sweat and slick and ejaculate, and when Ashe shifts to move from Dimitri’s lap, every joint in his body groans. He pulls away from Dimitri with a groan, still fluttering with aftershocks, and so when Dimitri tugs him onto his side, he goes without a fight.

Dimitri buries his face in Ashe’s hair, mussed with sweat and dirt as it is. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and wraps himself around Ashe’s body. He nudges further down, bumping his nose against Ashe’s cheek and jaw and throat until he can nuzzle the swollen gland that throbs just above his shoulder. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Ashe’s heart races in his chest, audible where it beats between their bodies. He’s sure Dimitri can hear it, can feel it against him. “I wanted you to be safe,” Ashe says, quiet as anything. He’s thankful that Dimitri can’t see his face; he presses him closer to his throat. “I know…how it can be, going through a heat alone.”

Dimitri smiles against him, baring teeth and worrying at Ashe’s jugular. His breath his hot on Ashe’s scent gland, and Ashe groans as a shiver builds at the base of his neck. “Thank you,” Dimitri says again. His eyelashes are soft where they flutter against Ashe’s throat. “Will you stay?”

Ashe pauses to consider, as though he hadn’t already planned on it. “Yes,” he says at last, trying not to sound too eager, but—Dimitri curls tightly against him, slotting one of Ashe’s thighs between his legs, and Ashe can feel how wet Dimitri still is. “Of course.”

Dimitri hums, parting himself on Ashe’s thigh and rutting lazily. He kisses the underside of Ashe’s jaw and says, “Good.”


	19. cbt (claude/sylvain)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW for piercing/blood mention, D/s, pain play.**

Sylvain gets his dick pierced on a Wednesday, and on the following Friday, Claude spends the night.

“Damn,” Claude says, eye-level with Sylvain’s groin, “that looks like it hurt.”

Sylvain feels his dick twitch and groans when it does, the scabbing from the piercing pulling at his slit. “Yeah,” he says, arousal coiling in his belly. Claude looks positively _ravenous_ , and when he looks up at Sylvain through lowered lashes, Sylvain knows he’s toast. “Yeah, it hurt.”

“Can you still come?” Claude asks, kicking his legs on the couch. He’s childlike with glee, smile dangerous as he butts his head against Sylvain’s thigh. “Has it bled much?”

“Yeah—yeah.” Sylvain grunts when Claude bites him, teeth sinking into the meat of his leg. “Yes to both of those things.”

Claude hums, considering the miserable twitch of Sylvain’s half-hard cock before pushing himself up onto all fours and leaning back onto his knees. “Can I touch?”

Sylvain knows he should say _no_ , knows he should look Claude in the eye and say _no, it needs to heal first,_ but— _oh_ , Claude looks at Sylvain like he’s going to destroy him, and he really, really wants that weight against his cock. “Yeah,” Sylvain finally says, anticipation surging in his chest. His heart beats rapidly in his ears. “Yeah. Yes. Please.”

Claude’s smile is cruel when he orders Sylvain onto the floor, crueler still when he shucks Sylvain’s pants from his body and clucks his tongue. “I was thinking of just using the piercing,” he muses, staring down at Sylvain with dark eyes, “but I _did_ get those clothespins the other day…” He pretends to consider, even though Sylvain knows him—knows that Claude has already made up his mind, or he wouldn’t have said it out loud. They’ve only done that kink of pain play once, but Sylvain had come harder than he had in his entire life, and he can feel the phantom of that pain radiate from his swollen cock.

Claude returns with a clear baggie in one hand and a glass of water in the other; he sets the glass on the coffee table and kneels in front of Sylvain with the bag. “How many do you think you deserve?” he asks.

There’s a challenge in his voice, and Sylvain is well-trained to rise to it. “Four,” he replies, voice cracked down the middle.

Claude raises an eyebrow. “You don’t sound very sincere.”

“Four, _please_.”

“Good boy,” Claude says, unzipping the bag. He dumps the clothespins onto the carpeted floor to Sylvain’s right, and takes his time considering before selecting one. To himself, he says, “There first, I think,” and gently, sweetly clasps it onto Sylvain’s balls.


	20. weight gain, hand-feeding (dimitri/sylvain)

You can find this fill [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27112180).


	21. lycanthropy (sylvain/hubert)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW for minor gross insect imagery, dub-con(ish), implied bestiality (sylvain is a Big Wolf).**

Sylvain’s awareness comes in fits and spurts, fighting against a splitting headache and the fog in his peripheral. Everything feels dense, _tight_ , like his skin is too small for his body, and he itches—he _itches_ , like insects are crawling on him, burrowing into him, biting at his heels and wrists and the back of his knees. He screams and he yells, and there are hands on his shoulders, something soft and cold and soothing, but he finds himself on the ground before he can understand what they’re saying.

He awakes in the dark, deep in the woods and covered in mud. His hands are claws and his knees are bent, spine arched as he thrums with an unfamiliar power. He blinks, and his vision swims—his eyes move too quickly for his brain to process, and everything skips and starts and wobbles when he tries to focus. There’s a growl stuck in his throat that he doesn’t recognize, something wet on his lips, and when he licks them, mouth lolling open, the world bursts into color.

He runs.

* * *

Sylvain blinks through the fog, yawning around a whine, and there’s a body to his right: tall and dark, smelling of salt and sulfur. His nose wrinkles and he scowls, hackles rising, and there’s a part of his chest that swells with recognition, but it’s not strong enough to keep him from growling.

“Gautier.”

The voice seems to come from far away, muffled and distorted. Sylvain feels his ears twitch as he steps closer, feet silent on the damp ground. The body doesn’t move; instead, it blinks, offering a single, rotten hand.

Sylvain reaches for his voice and finds that it’s gone. He whines again, butting his head against the palm of Hubert’s hand. He smells bergamot and pine beneath that sulfur, now, something bittersweet and acidic. He drools. Hubert frowns and rubs it off onto his robes.

“You were cursed,” Hubert says, speaking slowly as though he knows that Sylvain can’t understand him. Sylvain _can_ , but it’s hard—and he blinks and taps his feet and tilts his head while he tries to puzzle it out. _Cursed_. Hubert puts a hand on Sylvain’s cheek, testing the thickness of his fur, and he nods before lifting Sylvain’s lip to examine his teeth. “Total transformation,” he murmurs, before meeting Sylvain’s gaze. “It will wear off, I assume.”

 _You assume_ , Sylvain means to say. His vocal cords flex and shudder before he lets out a low whine, lowering his head and putting the brunt of his weight onto Hubert’s shoulder. Hubert nearly buckles beneath him, but he doesn’t, and Sylvain feels a spike of pride. He licks Hubert’s cheek and rubs the cold wet of his nose against his nape, and when Hubert shivers, he drags his tongue up the back of Hubert’s head. Hubert tenses and Sylvain snorts, and he thinks it’s odd how he’s never noticed Hubert’s _taste_ before.

* * *

Awareness fades and blooms anew, finding Sylvain alone and shivering in the depths of an unfamiliar cave. His body aches and his eyelids droop, and there’s at least a dozen shallow cuts along his belly and sides. There’s a fire burning in the corner, and he thinks—surely Hubert wouldn’t have left him, wouldn’t have left a fire if he hadn’t gone far. He whines a low whine, sleepily licking his lips as he listens for footsteps.

Hubert’s scent emerges before Hubert does, filtering through the smoke with a sharp acidity. Sylvain feels his mouth water and, distantly, the loud thumping of his tail when Hubert rounds the front lip of the cave. Hubert walks towards him empty-handed, hands raised, and there’s so much that Sylvain doesn’t remember but right now Hubert smells— _different_ , earthier, more substantial. The scent grows stronger as Hubert draws closer, and his clothes are disheveled, robe hastily clasped around his shoulders with both gloves shoved, unworn, into the side pockets.

Sylvain cocks his head and sniffs, butting his nose against Hubert’s jaw before slipping down to sniff his chest, his gloves, the unusual hang of his robes. Hubert lets him, pose statue-like but for the unevenness of his breathing, and when at last Sylvain’s nose bumps against the apex of Hubert’s legs, the scent grows stronger.

 _You incorrigible bastard_ , Sylvain wants to say, because that’s _cum_. A growl rises in Sylvain’s throat, unbidden and uncontrolled, and Hubert takes a hasty step back before saying,

“It’s yours, Gautier.”

Sylvain’s eyes must narrow, because Hubert sniffs and sighs and there’s a flush on his cheeks, something Sylvain hasn’t seen since—

“You were quite persuasive,” Hubert says. “I was a fool to think that you be any less insipidly charming as a _wolf_.”


	22. scent kink (dimitri/sylvain)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW for dub-con, feral dimitri, rule 63.**

Sylvain finds Dimitri in the cathedral, back turned and Areadbhar propped against the far wall. She can see the low slump of Dimitri’s shoulders, the way she holds her head; her blond hair hangs tangled and filthy. Sylvain takes one step forward, two, footsteps loud enough that Dimitri can hear them, and then—

“What are you doing here?” Dimitri asks, loud and rough. Her voice is paper-thin, as violent as it is frail, and Sylvain feels her heart ache even as her cunt throbs. She remembers—even now, even five years later—how Dimitri would come crawling to her room, sneaking down the hallway in the dead of night, and fall upon her like a wraith—their mouths urgent and wet, and Dimitri’s cunt hot against hers.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” says Sylvain, a tremble in her voice.

When Dimitri turns on her, she steels herself, squaring her shoulders in the face of Dimitri’s animal gaze. “I didn’t ask for your pity,” Dimitri says, and this time, there’s anger there—iron-red and fierce, something that makes Sylvain gush with insipid arousal. “You of all people—”

“I’m not here to bring you back,” Sylvain says in a rush, searching for any words that will keep Dimitri still, that will convince her of Sylvain’s loyalty. “I don’t want to—change you. I just.” She searches for words, feels her heart beat irregularly. Dimitri’s eye is so hot on her skin. “I miss you,” she whispers, a broken thing, and she’ll hate herself for that later, but—

Dimitri growls and surges forward, pinning Sylvain against the stone wall with nothing more than one gauntleted hand and the hard jut of her breastplate. “There is nothing to miss,” Dimitri hisses, breath rancid where it slithers over Sylvain’s skin. “The woman you loved died in Duscur.”

Sylvain gasps and chokes, eyes rolling back when Dimitri shoves a knee between her thighs. “No,” she manages, coughing when the sharp claws of Dimitri’s glove press against her throat. “I— _she_ —”

Dimitri kisses her, rough and hard and with every sharp edge that she’s been hiding behind her father’s sordid armor. She tastes of meat and blood, desperation and famine, and Sylvain can’t get _enough_ —can’t keep herself from moaning into Dimitri’s mouth with each ragged breath, tongue curling thick against Dimitri’s own. She grinds her hips down onto Dimitri’s armored thigh, seeking friction against her sopping cunt, and when Dimitri _responds_ , growling into Sylvain’s open, wet mouth, Sylvain buries her hands in the damp, oily strands of Dimitri’s hair.

“Dimitri,” she gasps, rolling her hips and guiding Dimitri’s mouth to her jaw. “Dimitri, Dimitri—”

The world tips as she’s tossed to the ground, the impact enough to knock the wind from her lungs. Sylvain coughs and splutters and tries to right herself, hands flat against the floor, and then Dimitri is straddling her. Dimitri rips the cloak from her broad shoulders and shoves her leather trousers from her thighs, exposing the throbbing red mess of her cunt to Sylvain, and the hair is so thick, so blond—Sylvain feels her mouth water, the taste a memory she’d nearly forgotten.

“Beg for your queen,” Dimitri says, and Sylvain _does_ , mouth falling open in a filthy stream.

“Please,” she says, breathless, “let me—let me taste you, you Highness, let me suck you, I’ll— _oh_ , Dimitri, don’t you remember how you used to ride my tongue, how I used to make you come all over my face, and you’d—I’d—”

“That’s enough,” Dimitri growls, grinding her cunt down onto Sylvain’s face. Sylvain has no choice but to breathe her in, all dirt and sweat and weeks of filth, but the scent of Dimitri’s cunt still fills her with molten heat, arousal swirling in her belly when she brings her mouth to Dimitri’s clit and _sucks_. “Make me proud, Sylvain,” Dimitri gasps, dragging herself along Sylvain’s face; “prove yourself to me, prove your loyalty—”

Sylvain comes before Dimitri does, a gush of slick soaking her panties when Dimitri grips her hair and draws painful welts across her scalp. She sucks Dimitri through it, tongue fucking into her cunt as Dimitri calls her _filthy, useless, disgusting_ , and when Dimitri finally comes, Sylvain opens her mouth and swallows what she can.

“Fuck,” she says, when she catches her breath. Dimitri is already halfway across the cathedral, cloak a crumpled pile next to the altar. “Dimitri—”

“ _Go_.” Dimitri does not face her.

Shame rises in Sylvain’s chest when she leaves the cathedral, as well as horror—her chin is wet and sticky with Dimitri’s cum, and her scent hangs sour in her nose and against the roof of her mouth. She does not look back; she does not beg forgiveness. Instead, she slips into her room, unnoticed, and falls asleep with Dimitri’s scent on her face.


	23. breast expansion (sylvain/hubert)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW for very minor self-harm, lactation.**

Hubert’s poison doesn’t wear off—if anything, it gets stronger. Sylvain finds himself sneaking into Hubert’s quarters after dark, a spare uniform thrown around his shoulders, and while it had been amusing in the beginning—the air of secrecy, the thrill of the unknown, the smug satisfaction in watching his own body be morphed and defiled—it’s begun to hurt, now. Hubert’s hands are always dutiful and gentle, fingers cool against Sylvain’s feverish skin, and when at last he’s collected Sylvain’s milk—more and more each day—he sends Sylvain back to his room with little more than a disinterested wave and a nod.

Today, Sylvain doesn’t last until evening.

His chest has been sore all day, aching around the edges and beneath his armpits and, now, in the center, a dull, tight throb that feels as though he’s been struck repeatedly in the ribs with a brick. He’d shoved himself into his breastplate this morning because it was sturdy, the steel solid and unyielding against the pressure of his swollen chest. At first, at had been fine; he’d gotten breakfast with Caspar and Lin, wincing only when Caspar punched him on the arm, and the ache had been easy to ignore through his first several meetings.

The clocktower chimes _three_ , and Sylvain has sweat on his brow.

He can’t move; he can’t laugh; he can’t breathe. The bruising pain in his chest has grown nearly unfathomable, throbbing in time with his heartbeat as Edelgard drones on about _troop movements_ and _bastions_ and _training tournaments_. There’s a flush in his cheeks, and although he tries to breathe shallowly, he can feel himself begin to grow lightheaded, eyelids heavy as he tries to pay attention.

His resolve nearly crumbles when Edelgard asks him a question: he blinks at her and says, “I’m sorry, what?”

She scowls, dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep. The lines on her forehead crease, and he can see her fatigue in the sharp hollows of her cheeks. She has not bothered with makeup, and Sylvain doesn’t blame her. “Is something the matter?” she asks, rapping her bitten fingernails on the table. “You look almost as though you’ve not been paying attention.”

He attempts a smile, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from cursing when his attempt to sit up straight threads a sharp pain through his right breast. “I’m,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. He clears his throat and folds his hands in his lap, digging the ridges of his nails into the palm of his hand to clear his head. “My apologies, Empress. I’m not feeling well.”

Slowly, and with narrowed eyes, Edelgard nods. Without glancing to her left, she says, “Hubert, escort Sylvain to his rooms.”

Hubert stands with a flourish, even if his face is twisted in distaste. “As you wish,” he says with a bow, and it sounds so very much like a hiss. His ire, as always, is directed towards Sylvain.

Hubert helps him stand with a sturdy arm, bearing the brunt of Sylvain’s weight in an impressive feat of strength. He escorts him from the war table and down the hall, passing the stairs without pause and shoving Sylvain into Manuela’s infirmary. Once there, he maneuvers Sylvain onto one of the beds, snaps his fingers, and singes the leather ties of Sylvain’s breastplate with both hands. It falls to the floor with a crash.

Sylvain _moans_ , the sudden release of pressure enough to flood his body with adrenaline. He feels his chest expand, swollen and feverish, and when he glances down, he nearly faints.

“I have tits,” he says breathlessly, bringing one hand to gingerly cup his left breast. It’s _heavy_ , a solid, warm weight against his palm, and he’s horrified to see the nipple harden. Wide-eyed, he looks up at Hubert. “You gave me tits.”


	24. wound/blood kink (sylvain/hubert)

You can find this fill [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27783097).


	25. lingerie/heels (dorothea/ingrid)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **no additional warnings apply.**

Ingrid is late coming home from work, fighting traffic and rain and all the exhaustion that Friday brings. When at last she pulls into her driveway, it’s a quarter til seven; the rain has turned to sleet, and when she steps out of her car, her boots sink into half-frozen mush. With a sigh, she pulls her coat tighter around herself, grabs her bag, and heads inside.

She’s expecting—hm. She opens the door to a dimly lit hallway, and although the stairway light is on, both the kitchen and the living room are dark. She frowns, reminder herself that the door _was_ locked, but—Dorothea’s car hadn’t been in the driveway, and Ingrid is certain that she left the kitchen light on when she left.

Slowly, and with one hand in her purse, she inches up the stairs. The bathroom light is on, and when she glances down the hall, she can see the glowing lamp in the office. She turns towards the bedroom with squared shoulders, firmly grasping the mace she keeps in her bag, and it’s with a deep breath and shaking fingers that she pushing the door open.

She drops her purse.

“Hey there, cutie,” says Dorothea from their bed.

“Holy shit,” Ingrid says. Her heart is pounding in her ears and— _and_ —her coat is so much hotter than it had been just a moment ago, bringing a high flush to her cheeks and drawing sweat on her brow. She inches closer to the bed, hands at her sides, and when she reaches Dorothea, she finds herself at a loss. Her hands flex impatiently, itching to touch, but Ingrid doesn’t know where to _start_. “Holy shit,” she says again.

Dorothea’s smile is slow as honey and just as sweet, curling the corners of her red lips and exposing white, white teeth. Ingrid’s mouth waters. “I’m sorry if I scared you,” Dorothea says, not sorry at all. One of her legs—stockinged, smooth, and there’s lace at the gaiter, holy _fuck_ —slithers between Ingrid’s thighs and nudges at the apex of her legs, teasing. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Color me surprised, then,” Ingrid says, swallowing around a thick tongue. She can feel her eyes bugging from her skull, pupils blown as she traces the lace from Dorothea’s thigh to the delicate curve of her ankle, the solid black heel that presses _barely_ , barely there at Ingrid’s groin. “What…”

Dorothea hums, lowering herself back onto the mattress. Her long hair fans around her shoulders, dark and sweet against the pale glimmer of her collarbones, and _fuck_ , her tits—her tits.

“Your tits,” Ingrid says, helpfully, because they’re spilling from Dorothea’s bra, areolas bulging pink and puffy from the too-small lace of the cup. “I’m—wait, I’m—”

Dorothea laughs, and Ingrid melts on top of her, pulled down by some inexplicable, invisible force. Dorothea’s knee grinds between Ingrid’s thighs, seeking the growing heat of her cunt, and when Ingrid shudders and curses, she arches her back and bares her chest. “Happy Friday, sweetheart,” she says, and drags Ingrid down for a kiss.


	26. overstimulation (hilda/edelgard)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW for under-negotiated kink, multiple orgasms, D/s.**

Hilda knocks on Edelgard’s door with a grimace. Edelgard hadn’t exactly been clear in her invitation—she’d merely sent a text that said, _eight, my place_ , like Hilda was supposed to know what that _meant_. Was she supposed to bring drinks? A side? Did Edelgard like wine? Was this a _thing_ , now?

Edelgard opens the door with a small smile, sweet if not a little cold. Her lips are pink and rough from biting, and Hilda knows that Edelgard is a panic attack waiting to happen, but—her dorm is so clean, meticulously decorated and styled, and Hilda feels her brow furrowing as she looks around.

“This is nice,” she admits, grudging disbelief in her voice. “You have good taste.”

“Don’t sound so surprised, Hilda,” Edelgard says, brushing her hair over one shoulder. “Besides, I didn’t decorate it. This”—she gestures vaguely—“was all Hubert’s doing.”

Hilda frowns. “I didn’t know interior design was one of his duties.”

“It’s not,” Edelgard says, already pushing Hilda onto the bed. “He did it anyway.”

Hilda doesn’t get a chance to say much else, what with Edelgard mounting her with a soft grunt and crushing their mouths together. The kiss is sloppy and wet, and Hilda shouldn’t like it as much as she does: Edelgard is so _selfish_ , shoving her tongue into Hilda’s mouth and grabbing her jaw, directing all of Hilda’s movements with a single, tiny hand. When at last Hilda is allowed to breathe, she says, “Oh, is this what you had in mind for today?”

Edelgard raises one perfectly plucked brow— _waxed, probably_ , Hilda amends—and says, “Is this dissatisfactory?”

“ _Dissatisfactory_?” Against her better nature, Hilda giggles. “Are you—” She clears her throat at Edelgard’s glare. “No, ma’am. I am perfectly satisfied.” She can’t quite keep the corners of her mouth from twitching upwards, but she is sincere, and Edelgard seems convinced.

“You’re such a brat,” Edelgard says with a sigh. She reaches under the bed with one arm, searching blindly; her face is twisted in intense concentration. Hilda means to comment on it—it’s _cute_ , okay—but Edelgard finds what she’s looking for, eyes lighting up as she pulls it from beneath the bed. “I seem to remember you bragging about how many times you could come,” she says.

Hilda eyes the wand with some apprehension, cunt throbbing vaguely at Edelgard’s threat. “Yes,” she says at last, licking her lips. “What of it?”

Edelgard smiles, teeth white against the red of her lips. “We’re going to beat your record.”

The first orgasm comes easily enough: Edelgard rubs Hilda through her panties, vibrator dulled by thin cotton and little more than a pleasant hum. It crests over her in a warm wave, almost gentle in the way that it tingles at her fingers and the base of her spine. She relaxes into it and sighs, little _ah, ah, ah_ s caught in her throat.

Edelgard kisses Hilda’s jaw before rolling the vibrator closer to her clit and flicking the intensity higher, slipping her hand into Hilda’s soaked panties. Her fingers are coy, teasing at the wet lips of her cunt without pressing _in_ , and Hilda’s second orgasm catches them both by surprise—she thrashes and whines, sweat breaking out between her shoulder blades as Edelgard presses _harder_ , sliding two fingers into her cunt and milking a third orgasm from Hilda’s frantic body.

Hilda begs for a break after the fourth, tears clumping her lashes as she cries, “Edelgard—Edie, _please_ ,” but Edelgard doesn’t stop. She smirks and clucks her tongue and removes the vibrator, biting at Hilda’s nipple before flicking cruelly at Hilda’s clit. Hilda sobs, toes curling as her entire body shivers on the blade’s edge of pleasure-pain.

“You said your record was five,” Edelgard murmurs, lips hot along the underside of Hilda’s breast. “Or were you merely lying to impress me?”

Hilda hiccups and shudders, struggling to catch her breath. “I was _not_ ,” she says, tongue thick in her mouth. “But there were more spaced out than this, Edelgard, you can’t expect me to—”

Edelgard’s mouth closes around Hilda’s nipple and _bites_ , rolling the nub between her teeth. When she pulls away, a thin line of spit connects her lower lip to the flushed skin of Hilda’s breast. “I can,” she says, “and I will.” Her smile is dangerous. “Only two more to go, Hilda.”

**Author's Note:**

> i have a [twitter](https://twitter.com/nishtabel)


End file.
